


As you say

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Gloves, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose helps his king justify his solution to the Theon Greyjoy problem.  Show!verse, set after Roose sends a raven to his bastard.</p>
<p>Written for the 7th annual Five Acts kink meme on LiveJournal</p>
            </blockquote>





	As you say

A/N: show!verse Roose/Robb, only way that this works is with McElhatton’s “flaying you with my eyes, boy” and Madden’s hormonal puddle of angst.

Roose Bolton arrives at his tent late that evening, and reluctantly, Robb grants him entrance. 

“It is done, Your Grace.”

Robb looks at him, eyes full of torment that he will not voice, that shows all too well in the glassy gleam therein, the slumped cast of his shoulders, the tightness in his voice. “I thank you for that, Lord Bolton.” He sinks his head in his hands, imagining how it will go when Bolton’s Bastard and his men march on Winterfell. Robb has heard tales from his father, from Old Nan, from the smallfolk who cluster inside the walls of Winter Town, about what sort of man Ramsay Snow is, what sort of casual cruelties that he is capable of, and while there is a part of him that fears for the man who he’d once called _brother_ , there is another, hardened by war, by family ties, that longs to see him on his knees, begging Robb for mercy, begging for an absolution that he has no power, nor will, to grant. 

It is a part that he is desperate to root out, to cut away, a part that is alien to him, for it breaks his heart. 

“Your Grace?” Bolton has neared the makeshift table where Robb sits, a map, untouched, spread in front of him, candles burnt to nubs providing the only light in the close, dim space. He feels the whisper of a touch, Bolton’s gloved hand, passing across the back of his neck, and he shivers. “Your Grace,” Bolton continues, his voice almost a caress, “what you have done was necessary. The Greyjoy boy must be made example of.”

Robb sighs then for even the mention of Theon’s name is painful now. “He was my brother. What I have done is unconscionable. What I have done is a death sentence. What I have done-”

“Is the action of a king.” Bolton’s voice is hard now, cutting off Robb’s childish protests. He feels the other man’s grip, once so tentative, tighten, and his breath draws harsh in his throat at the feel of the soft leather on his bare skin, at the closeness of Bolton as he leans toward Robb. His thumb toys with the notch of Robb’s collarbone, hand sliding around to encircle his throat, fingers sliding inside of Robb’s collar. 

“What he has done to my Bran and Rickon…I should be glad to swing the blade. But must blood answer for blood?” Robb looks Bolton in the eyes, the pain writ large on his face. 

Roose Bolton’s grip tightens at this, and a cold cast comes over his features. There is a slight contempt in his voice as he answers. “It must if you ever hope to rule. The north is full of hard men, and harder deeds. Look at Karstark. Do you think that he would hesitate were such an insult perpetrated upon his family? And the Greatjon, would he not destroy any who threatened the safe of Last Hearth?” 

Robb gasps for breath, struggling against fingers that check it, and he lays a shaking hand on Bolton’s wrist. “And Bolton,” he says in response, “after all, you are the one whispering in my ear, and I know all too well what sort of man you are.”

With that, Bolton releases his grip on Robb. He laughs, a queer, dry sound. “And what sort is that, Your Grace? I live only to serve you in all things. It is not my concern that your tender feelings for the Greyjoy whelp cloud your judgment. And it is not my place to shield you were such thoughts made known.” He smiles then, his eyes dead to mirth. 

Robb’s face flushes, and he breaks his gaze, staring into the shadowy corners of the tent. “He was merely my brother, and nothing more,” he says at last, releasing his grip on Bolton’s arm, hand snaking away in shame. “Nothing more.”

Bolton nods. “As you say, Your Grace.” He trails a finger down Robb’s cheek, wiping at the tear that has betrayed him in his misery. “As you say.”


End file.
